


Where Have You Gone, Joe DiMaggio?

by tigerlady (shetiger)



Category: Sanctuary (TV)
Genre: Abuse of furniture, Boudoir art, F/M, First Time, Historic figures, Pleasing the lady, Sex Positive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-07
Updated: 2011-03-07
Packaged: 2017-10-16 04:30:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/168426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shetiger/pseuds/tigerlady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another storytelling session sets Helen and Will off on a mission digging through her mementos--and Will finds more than he could hope for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where Have You Gone, Joe DiMaggio?

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by a post that smittywing pointed out to me [here](http://wal-lace.livejournal.com/492316.html) (not porn, but probably not safe for work) of erotic paintings from the '40s. Thank you to her and kageygirl for the cheerleading, hand-holding, and beating about the head. Thank you to kagey also for betaing. <3

"So how well did you know ol' Joltin' Joe?" Will asks as he opens the top right drawer of the walnut chiffonier he'd decided to start with. There are a few monogrammed hankies--no initials he recognizes--and a single color photograph, faded with age, of the Washington Mall. He resists the temptation to ask and moves on to the next drawer. Normal people don't have entire suites of furniture in their 'storage closets', but Helen Magnus has never been anything close to normal, and if he gives in to his curiosity, they'll never get to his true quarry before she's called away on more urgent business.

"Not well, really." Helen's voice is distant, though she's only a few feet away, the sound muffled by the rows of vintage clothing lining the walls and the menagerie of storage boxes between them. "We met socially a few times, but I must admit he was very memorable."

"You must have made an impression, yourself. If he was willing to give you his lucky cap, I mean."

Helen snorts. " **A** cap, anyway. He was an incorrigible flirt. I wouldn't be surprised if he had a whole box of lucky hats."

"Cap," he corrects as he pulls open the third drawer. A man's gold pocket watch is the only thing inside. He checks it for an inscription and comes up empty.

"Excuse me?"

He closes the drawer and looks up. Helen's elbow deep in a cedar chest, forehead furrowed with concentration. A lock of hair falls forward, and she blows it away from her face with an impatient huff. She looks ridiculous and beautiful.

"It's a baseball _cap_ ," he says, returning to what he's supposed to be doing. "There's no such thing as a baseball hat."

"A cap is a hat," she says, like he's completely lost his grasp on reality. Which, when it comes to baseball, is totally possible. "I simply used the more general term. It's not wrong, just non-specific."

"Uh-huh." He's almost through with the chiffonier--are those sock garters? And he'd thought snuff boxes went out of style long before Helen was born. "Keep that in mind next time I offer you a hot beverage. "

"Beast," she growls back at him.

Will chuckles. He turns around, putting his back to the chiffonier as he plans out his next attack. There's a tiger oak dresser sprawling across the back of the room, but he has a feeling it's less likely to contain trinkets than bits of clothing he probably shouldn't be pawing through. Onward to the boxes, then. He tries to evaluate them logically, searching for the right era, but what look like some of the oldest crates are near the front of the closet, and he spots a waxy cardboard kiwi fruit carton buried near the back.

Right. Eeny-meany it is, then.

"You know he sent half a dozen red roses to Marilyn's crypt three times a week for twenty years?" he asks as he takes the most expedient route and opens the box directly in front of him. "I'm not sure if that's crazy or romantic."

"A little of both, I'd wager."

Will grunts in response, remembering too late that she's probably not the best one to poll about the craziness of relationships. He lets himself be drawn down into the history under his hands. A cigar box is topmost, made of thin, flimsy balsa but beautifully illustrated. He rubs his finger across one of the still-vibrant green leaves, then flips open the top. A handful of coins slide across the top of paper bills, all in currency he doesn't immediately recognize. He sets the box to the side to investigate more thoroughly later, and moves on.

He's pulled out an old black free-standing telephone, a feather boa, several more handkerchiefs, and a deck of playing cards before he spots a what looks like a stationery box. It's thin and wide, about eight by ten, and girded by a delicate lavender ribbon. Too small to hold a baseball cap, but, hey. Might as well make sure.

There's a stack of prints inside, maybe half a dozen. Boudoir prints, actually, done in that iconic World War II-era style, full of distinct pastel strokes and spots of bold color that mesmerize the eye. The woman in this one has her back to the artist, her peacock blue robe off her shoulders and dangling from her elbows. She's wearing a short navy negligee, thigh high stockings, and a pair of flirty heels. It'd be almost creepily voyeuristic, if it weren't for the way the woman is looking over her shoulder. Her eyes are heavily lidded, gaze down, but her lips quirk up knowingly.

Will nearly knocks the whole box to the floor when he realizes he knows that profile. Knows it very well.

"Ha! I knew they were here somewhere."

He drops the prints like they're a pissed-off clovis viper and shoves his hands into his back pockets. He looks up, clearing his throat as he tries to focus on Helen's triumph. The part of his brain that never shuts off takes in the details: she's holding up a faded blue ball cap with its distinctive white NY, and a yellowed photograph of Joe DiMaggio crowning a grinning Helen with presumably the same.

Neither object is fascinating enough to chase away the image still etched on his optic nerve. Without volition, his gaze drops to her feet; she's wearing a pair of strappy stilettos today, ones that wrap around her ankle and elongate her calves. His perusal is interrupted at her knee by the hem of her skirt, and that's when he realizes what he's doing. He jerks his head up, gaze back on her face, but it's too late. She's watching him with an arched eyebrow and a curious smile.

"Find something more interesting than baseball?" she asks, setting her finds aside before she stalks forward. Will is struck by a boyish urge to shove the lid back on the box and hide the whole thing behind his back, but before he can act on the impulse, she's beside him, reaching down for the prints. "Oh, yes," she says. "I'd almost forgotten I had these done."

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have looked," Will says, his words almost crashing into each other in their hurry to leave his mouth. Helen brings them to an abrupt halt with a soft touch to his upper arm.

"Did you suddenly develop precognition? There was no way for you to know they were in here." She smiles. "Besides. They were meant to be seen."

She strokes her thumb across the bottom of the print, and he takes that as permission to look again. Her hair is blonde in the picture, which is why he didn't immediately ping to the fact that it's her. He thinks he likes it better brunette, but it's a close call, especially with the way those messy ringlets are swept up on top of her head and pinned in place by ebony chopsticks, baring the graceful slope of her neck.

"By whom?" he asks, feeling bolder now that his sense of being caught out has faded.

That gets a sigh. "Someone who never could." She looks up then, shaking her head at his inquiring look. "I don't mean to be cryptic. I had them done in the spring of 1939. Shortly after Amelia was declared dead."

As accustomed as he is to her careless namedropping, it still takes half a minute for her meaning to penetrate. "Wait. Amelia? You knew Amelia Earhart?"

She barely lifts her chin. "Yes. Eleanor introduced us."

"Eleanor...Roosevelt." He shakes his head, unable to stop the grin overtaking his face. He's never going to get over just how cool Helen is. He looks back down to her hands just as she flips to the next print in the stack--and has to swallow hard at the picture that's revealed. Helen in yet another negligee. This one is longer, more like a dress--but it's sheer. She's posed so only the line of buttock and curve of breast show through, but it's incredibly enticing. He shifts his stance a little, trying to accommodate the rush of blood to his groin.

Things click in place. "Wait. You had these done for her. You're saying you _knew_ Amelia Earhart."

"Intimately," she answers without hesitation. "Does that shock you?"

"Uh, yeah. I mean, I know it shouldn't, but somehow you always manage to surprise me." He grins at her, but something in her face changes and she avoids his gaze. It takes him a moment to figure out what he said. "Oh, damn, Magnus, that is totally not what I meant. I'm just fanboying Amelia Earhart over here. It has nothing to do with both of you being women."

"Thank you, Will," she murmurs. She looks over at him again, and there's a touch of shyness it the way she cants her head. "Forgive my initial assumption."

"Totally understandable." He shakes his head. "I mean, even today, there's so much prejudice. And the prurient factor, too. Guys getting off on the idea of two women together. Not that it's not hot. Because hi, I'm a guy, and the thought of you and... You know what? I'm just going to stop talking now."

Thank God, Helen laughs.

He clears his throat. "So why'd you have them done? After she was declared dead, I mean."

"It was almost a bet, I guess you could say. I was concerned about the length of her route, especially over the Pacific. But she was always very stubborn, especially when someone told her she couldn't do something."

Will snorts. "I can't imagine the two of you having anything in common at all."

"Cheeky." She knocks her shoulder into his. "She was not to be discouraged. Before she set off, she told me she expected a reward from me when she proved me wrong. And that she had just the thing in mind."

"I'm sorry for your loss."

"Thank you," she says quietly. Then she shakes her head. "There was no reason for me to go through with it, but."

"You were holding out hope."

She nods. "I wanted to give her something to come home to."

They share a moment of solemn silence. Then Helen lifts her head, normal twinkle back in her eyes. "Besides. It turned out to be much more fun than I ever imagined. A shame, really, that I haven't had an appreciative audience before now."

Will swallows. "Definitely appreciative."

"And you haven't even seen the best ones yet." She holds his gaze. Daring him. He nods for her to go ahead.

The next print takes his breath away. He's flushing, he knows it, can feel the heat from the blood rushing to the surface of his skin even before he takes in all the details in front of his eyes. Helen's seated at a dark wood and marble vanity, leaning slightly forward towards the mirror in front of her. Her dressing gown is pooled at her waist--and she's naked above. One breast is obscured by the lay of her arm, but the other is bare to his eyes, full as he'd imagined. Her nipple is erect. It could be from the cold of being exposed, but his profiler's mind whispers that it's from arousal, from having the artist's eyes upon her.

"That's, uh." He clears his throat, then realizes he doesn't have anything to say. Nothing that he's brave enough to put out there.

"I was really quite impressed by Edgar's eye for composition," Helen says. For a second he thinks she's rescuing him, but then she flips to the next print and he knows it's just another brilliant tease. "This one, for instance. I initially thought the concept was rather ridiculous, but the result... Well."

He understands why Helen Magnus, logical thinker extraordinaire, would be initially resistant. Helen's kneeling on a rug, high heeled feet poking out to the side of her naked ass. Lingerie is spread out around her, as if she dumped her entire nightie drawer out on the floor in her effort to choose the perfect one. Ridiculous, maybe, but incredibly erotic. He's hard and hungry as he stares at her bare breasts, at the cascade of golden curls around her neck, at the sheer black underthing she's holding that barely hides her crotch.

He looks up. Helen's watching him with parted lips, her pupils black with arousal. The only thing that holds him back is not knowing whether she wants him--or simply to be seen by someone.

Will clears his throat. "And here I thought that's always how you went about choosing your nighties."

Helen's lips curl up in a delighted smile. "Why, William. Are you telling me that you've spent time thinking about my nightie collection?"

He'd say that one day, that urge to follow wherever she leads is going to be the death of him--but he's been there, done that, brought back the souvenir. He takes a step forward, though there's less than a half a step between them, letting his chest press into the back of her shoulder as he reaches out and cups his hand around the stack of prints. The heel of his palm rests against her fingers, but she doesn't pull away, or shake him off.

"Frequently," he says, holding her gaze. Then he tugs at the prints. "You have anything else to show me?"

She turns slightly, so that her arm is against his chest now, her hip brushing against his thigh. Her eyebrows draw together dangerously, but her eyes are practically shimmering with delight. "Haven't I shown you enough already?"

"Worlds. More than I could ever imagine." They're so close together he can smell her, more than the light perfume that always threads through the halls of the Sanctuary. More than the softly floral scent of her shampoo. "But would you be satisfied stopping when you knew there was so much more out there?"

"Never have been." The muscles of her arm flex, her fingers move under his hand, and she brings another print to the top.

She's completely naked.

She's lying on a bed, arm above her head, thighs pressed together to preserve the last vestiges of modesty. Even more than the others, it's a work of art, a ‘40s odalisque. But Will can't even pretend to a critic's objectivity, not when she's staring out at him from the painting with those same daring eyes from before.

"Magnus." His voice is ragged, gritty with need. She pulls the prints out of his hand and gently drops them back into the box, then turns to face him. In her heels, she's taller than he is, just enough that he has to look slightly up to meet her gaze.

"Helen," she says, brushing her thumb over his bottom lip. "My name is Helen."

"Helen," he repeats, murmuring her name against her skin. She rewards him by leaning forward, letting her lips hover just against his, not quite touching. Another dare. Will doesn't give in right away. They breathe against each other, eyes meeting and then flicking down, only to meet again. An impatient noise escapes Helen's control, and that's when he closes the distance between them.

There's no finesse. No softness. He's wanted her since day one, and that desire has only gotten stronger the longer he's known her. Whatever's behind Helen's need, her fervor is equal to his own. Her hands work up under the hem of his shirt, stroking over his skin in a way that makes him break out in a sweat. He returns the favor by cupping her ass in both hands and pulling her in, until her thigh is pressed hot and sweet against his throbbing dick.

They break apart, breathing hard as they stare at each other.

"I've wanted to do that for ages," Helen says, licking wetness off of her lips. "You've no idea."

"Mmm," he says, unable to resist nipping at her lower lip. "What stopped you?"

"I didn't want to scare you off." Helen starts unbuttoning his shirt, surgeon-nimble fingers moving rapidly down his front. "I wanted to make sure you were ready."

"Oh, believe me." He strokes the smooth skin of her upper arms as she works. "I am so incredibly ready you could stick a toothpick in me and it'd come away clean."

Helen giggles, almost girlishly. The sound dies away quickly once she pushes his shirt off his shoulders. "You are truly magnificent," she says, not shy at all about the way she makes her appraisal. His ears heat, but the open admiration in her eyes makes every ounce of effort he's put into his body worth it. "I should pull my old Hasselblad out of retirement. You'd make quite an appealing subject, yourself."

"As long as you're the one developing the negatives." It's not even an empty heat-of-the-moment offer; exhibitionism isn't really his thing, but if posing for boudoir photographs is what makes her happy, he's more than willing.

"Mmm, later, perhaps. I have something else in mind for right now." She skims her hand down his chest, over his belly, and then--

"Oh, _Jesus_ ," he gets out as she palms him through his slacks. She doesn't stop at 'hello, let's talk more later'. No, her hand and his cock are having an intense getting-to-know-you conversation right now. His breath comes ragged through his mouth, and he lets his head drop, resting his temple against hers.

Which leaves her lips against his ear. A shudder of dirty-wrong memory washes over his spine, but then he feels the smallest buss of a kiss against his skin, and he's completely in the now. "There are so many things I want to do to you," she says, the words buzzing across his cheekbone. "So many things I want to teach you."

Her hand has dropped down to massage his balls. If she keeps at him like this, in a couple of minutes he's going to be needing a clean pair of pants. Will catches hold of her wrist, and she lets him pull her hand away. "You don't have to teach me **everything** , you know."

That doesn't dim the fire in her eyes at all. "That sounds like a promise to me."

"You can hold me back for remedial education if I don't live up to it." He kisses her before she can say anything else, hands busy reaching for her skirt as he tries not to lose sight of his plan. He hitches the fabric up over her hips, and she follows his lead easily, wrapping her legs around him so that only their clothes and the angle keep them apart. He takes a deep, unsteady breath, and then takes the few steps necessary to bring them to the chiffonier. The thought of putting any space between them is actually physically painful, but he does it, boosting her up onto the bare top of the chiffonier.

"Showy," she says, smiling down at him. Then she looks him up and down, eyebrow cocked as if to point out the very obvious differences between their heights in this position. "Need a step stool? I think there's one in the corner."

He snorts. "Maybe later." Then he reaches for the narrow bands of cloth over her hipbones, holding her gaze as he curls his fingers under the satin. She pushes herself up with her hands, enough so that he can draw her panties off and down her legs. He takes care not to snag them on those spiky heels, and he can't help stroking her ankles as he does so. He stuffs the cloth into his front pocket--and then it's time for the main event.

Helen gasps as he pushes her thighs further apart, and he can't help aiming a devilish smile up at her.

"Just remember," she says, idly running her fingers through the hair at his temple, "I haven't had my turn yet."

"Is that supposed to discourage me?" Will turns his face into her thigh before she can answer, taking a deep whiff of her skin before he rubs his stubble against her sensitive skin. Her muscles tighten, but she doesn't flinch at all. "Oh, yeah. This is going to be good."

"I am highly certain that there are better uses for--" She cuts off most satisfyingly as he spreads her open with his hands. He's learned to take it slower with most women, but she seems as primed for touch as he is right now, flush and glisteningly wet. Her legs tighten around his back, heels scraping against his skin, and he takes the hint.

She tastes better than he imagined. He takes the time to learn her, slowly circling her clit before moving down. Helen seems to like everything he does, if her moans and gasps are anything to go by--and he's pretty damn sure Helen Magnus is not a woman to fake it.

"Will," she whispers. Not a demand, or a plea. Simply his name. He lifts his head, just enough that he can kiss her right above the pubic bone, where stretch marks melt away into pubic hair. Then he moves back down and starts licking her clit in earnest.

"My lord," she gasps out, sounding so startled and Victorian that he almost laughs. Instead, he pushes two fingers in, finds her G-spot and starts stroking. Her heels press harder into his back, her thighs threatening to suffocate him, but there's nowhere in the world he'd rather be. Her hips start rocking and he tries to match his speed to hers.

She comes with loud, wordless cries as her muscles clench and flutter. He keeps going, holding out until another peak rises, waiting until her voice gives out and she relaxes all at once. Then he gently pulls away, kissing her thigh one more time before straightening.

"Okay?" he asks. His hands have a mind of their own, running over every bit of bare skin they can find. He hasn't even seen her breasts yet--not live, in person, anyway--and he's so hard he's afraid his zipper's going to give up the ghost.

Helen smiles dreamily at him. "You know very well that was more than okay. By miles."

"I never take anything for granted. Not with you."

"Mmm, you don't, do you?" She sits up and rests her hands on his shoulders. "Your assistance, please."

Will takes hold of her by the waist, giving her the lift she needs to clear the edge gracefully. Once back on her feet, she tugs her skirt back into place, smoothing out the wrinkles with her palms. She's almost completely back to the buttoned-up Magnus that he sees every day--except for the fact that her panties are still in his pocket.

"Can you make it back to my quarters?" she asks as she stoops to pick up his shirt. "I do realize it's a bit longer of a wait than you'd prefer, but what I have in mind requires a little more space than what we have here."

His fingers fumble as he tries to take his shirt out of her hands. They're not too great once he gets it on and starts on the buttons, either. "Uh, yeah," he manages once she takes over for him. Her dressing him shouldn't be as erotic as it was when she undressed him, but somehow it is. "Just don't expect any intelligent conversation on the way. I think my brain is in a permanent state of oxygen deprivation."

"Oh, Will," she says as she finishes the last button. She pats him gently on the cheek. "Just you wait."

 

END


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